Of Machines and Men
by Autobot Xena
Summary: From within the depths of my mind, comes the rewrite of On Leave! I am taking this chapter by chapter, so expect some big changes to the plot and structure of the original. If you don't know what I'm talking about, go read On Leave this instant. or don't. Up to you, really. KnockoutxOC
1. The Return

Well. Lookie here. The rewrite. I really hope this all goes to plan, because I spent a crap ton of time doing absolutely nothing. Then more nothing. And some more nothing on top of that. ONWARD!

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><p>Chapter One: The Return<p>

The smell of coffee wafted through the cabins, a heavy yet soothing aroma that hung in the air like a gentle cloud. It seeped from the galley, snaked between the rows of seats and snuck into the air conditioning. From there it spread quickly like a virus, its influence rousing some of the less active passengers on board and refreshing the livelier ones. The smell even reached the storage cabins, finally settling in a dark corner and mixing with the scent of dust and grease.

Coffee was being handed out generously, each mug filled to the brim with the velvety black liquid and sometimes adorned with cream or sugar. The elderly couple in the front received the first choosing, ultimately settling on two cups of coffee with cream. The mother with her five sons three rows down gratefully took her mug, savoring the escape from the last hour of childish entertainment. Coffee was finally offered, in the last row to the right, to two heavily dressed figures in professional attire. One was slightly more awake than the other, who was slumped and snoring lightly. The companion, who ordered for both of them, decided that then was the time for the other one to wake up and be a considerate human being. This was achieved by a stream of scalding hot coffee splashed onto the sleeping person's face.

This created quite the desired effect.

"AAAUGH!" shrieked the victim, her hands shooting up to protect herself from any more assaults. Drips of coffee clung to her hair, plastering it to her now soaked face. Her eyes were squeezed shut in pain, forcibly attempting to rub off the remainder of the beverage. The companion, with due consideration for her friend's feelings, was laughing her head off.

"Not cool, man!" the woman growled through clenched teeth, her sleeve now damp with coffee, "you couldn't have woken me up any other way?"

"Oh, come on 'Liza. Drink your damn coffee." Eliza now had a mug in her hands, the temperature stinging her palms. She eyed her friend as she sipped the offering. It warmed her stomach, the bitterness burbling in her stomach comfortably. She breathed in the aroma with contented leisure. "Thanks for getting me one, at least. Looks like you aren't so selfish after all."

Her companion shook her head, "Selfish? You try ordering two cups and waiting for your buddy to wake up."

"Waiting for me to wake up? You tried to burn me alive, remember Catherine?"

Catherine giggled, gazing out the window. Currently there was really nothing to look at, just some fields and occasionally a town or two. The train's tracks avoided the civilization, making the trip rather less scenic than it should have been. Catherine simply looked out to look out; no purpose or incentive drove her to do anything else. Elizabeth, sipping her coffee, had pulled out a small book and was reading from it. Bound in red leather, a small satin ribbon dyed a dull grey served as a place marker. She was playing with it now, her fingers rubbing the fabric between them. Rough, she concluded as she allowed the ribbon to droop, rough but smooth on the other side.

Catherine switched her sights to Elizabeth, "How long do we have?" Elizabeth pulled out her watch, the glass face scratched and worn from use. The minute hand was barely legible, but it proved its use nonetheless after a couple seconds of critical staring. "A few more hours before we reach the station. You getting jumpy?"

"Nah. I'm just bored is all." Catherine pulled out a deck of cards from her pocket, smiling. "You wanna play?"

Elizabeth grinned back, reflecting Catherine's complacent look before pointedly rummaging in her bag. She fished out a pocketable case, which opened with a neat little *click*. A pair of glasses were taken out, and gingerly placed on Elizabeth's face. Her eyes were slightly magnified now, the irises glowing a bit from the glare. Catherine dealt out her cards, "Speed, no time. We each get half the deck, five cards in hand."

Speed was Catherine's favorite game. It required timed thinking, a quick hand and even quicker reflexes. All of these Catherine had. Elizabeth, on the other hand, could beg to differ. "Why Speed? We have plenty of time. How about War?" Catherine crinkled her nose. "War? That could take hours! It's no fun anyway. Besides, I own the deck."

Elizabeth grunted and swiped her half of the deck from Catherine. For her friend, she could be a real kid sometimes. "Fine, you win. But I'm going to beat you so hard that you'll be dying to play something else." Catherine's eyes glimmered sinisterly from over her cards.

"You're on."

It was a flurry. Hands snapped from cards to table and back to cards. Catherine deftly took cards from her deck without looking, though the hand never decreased in size. Her tactic was simple: Every time she got a card, put it down and have the next one ready. One by one, she quickly decreased her deck to half its size in a heartbeat.

Elizabeth used a different tactic. She had lined up her cards in order, and with irregular timing she would slam down packs of cards. This quickly diminished her hand, but she too quickly refilled it with cards from her deck. Bombing, she called it. It was a strategy Catherine detested, half because she believed that it was a crude and unprofessional tactic. The other half was that it was the only strategy Elizabeth beat her with on numerous occasions.

"SPEED!"

Catherine hand hovered just above Elizabeth's, whose had slammed into the table with the last cards in the deck. Elizabeth smiled proudly, "Take _that." _

Catherine stared at the deck for a few minutes, then sighed as she let her last card fall onto the table. She would have won too, but Elizabeth had beaten her to it. "Aw, come on Cat. It's just a game."

"Yeah. My game." Catherine gathered up the cards and shuffled them again, and began to file them into the little box. Elizabeth shook her head, "Don't be such a sore loser. You wanna play again?"

"No."

"Do you want to play something else?"

"No."

"Well, what do you want to do?"

Catherine snapped the little case shut, replacing it in her pocket. "How about we just talk."

"Okay…" Elizabeth started, taking the glasses off and replacing them in the little case, "Have you talked to you little sister lately?"

Catherine's expression immediately softened, "Yeah, we did before we left for the station. She sounded super excited, and promised that there'll be a surprise waiting for me when I get home." She stretched her arms while glancing out the window, the fields from some time ago now dramatically changed into some kind of desert. The worn sun-bathed dirt glowed in the afternoon light, the occasional desert tree zooming past like a blip on a heart monitor.

"What about Raph?" Catherine asked, tugging her cufflinks lightly, "have you heard from him?"

Elizabeth shook her head. She hadn't been able to talk to Raphael since last Christmas. It had been so long ago that she could barely remember what he looked like. Has he changed at all in the past seven months? Who knew, really? She had to make some serious connections just to talk to him for a good half-hour. He was super excited, showing me all the cool presents he got. Science projects and laboratory equipment, of course. What else would you expect from a kid like him?

"Well, I bet he misses you tons," stated Catherine. I could only nod and stare down at my hands.

I hope he does.

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><p>The train station was busy that day. Masses of people squeezed themselves in and out of the sleek cabins, all bustling to get somewhere. A few had parked themselves in the middle of all this chaos, either waiting for the two o'clock train to Las Vegas or just people watching. The great big board of all the arrival and departure times flipped and shifted, the numbers and letters flittering in and out. The smell of coffee was present all throughout the station, thanks to a Back to the Grind coffee shop located near the entrance. My mother was sipping her cup in between anxious glances at her watch. "I wish they would come."<p>

I didn't reply to her mumbling. It wasn't meant for me anyways. I checked the great big clock located on the wall above the arrival times. Four o' five. The train was five minutes late, a rare occurrence in the Carson City Station. I shifted in my seat, my feet swinging involuntarily to the sounds around me. The clicking of a woman in high heels. The thrum of a train pulling away from the boarding station. The dampened pop music echoing through the speakers around the station. The rhythm was everywhere.

My meditative thinking was interrupted by the sound of a train whistle, painfully ear-piercing. A train had arrived, now settling up front nearest to our side of the station. A man wearing a blue suit had approached the train, and deftly swung the door open and entered. I watched his blue hat bob through the cabins, disappearing in the parts where they joined and had no windows. People began to get off, retrieving their luggage from a couple of young men also dressed in blue. One of them was being exceptionally polite and enthusiastic, hoisting the largest bags and setting them down as gingerly as he could. An elderly couple thanked the man for his help, and then took off with a map clutched in their hands. Tourists, maybe. Or visiting relatives new to the area. A large family of six filed out one by one, the mother clearly busy with one of her small boys. She had the poor guy by the ear, yelling something while she handed the luggage boy a tip. The young man said nothing, but tipped his hat in respect as the mother and the rest of her children moved en masse towards the public parking structure.

I didn't know what to expect when I saw her. After five hard years serving for her country, I had figured she'd be tough as nails. My mind had procured an image of a hard-built woman, arms and chest filled with tattoos and scars riddling her skin. Maybe somewhere in there she might have been smoking a cigarette, all the while flipping through a firearms magazine. I had only seen her spastically throughout the five years, and my mind always went back to that image. She would be sneering, I thought, unhappy and scared of her own shadow just like all the other veterans I had seen. Either that or she would be cruel and unforgiving, and quite possibly eager enough to teach me a few things about barrack life. My mom swore she would never let that kind of thing happen, and scolded me to put that ridiculous image out of my head.

What I _did _see were two women, dressed in starchy uniforms. The one on the left donned a dark blue suit, complete with hat and shiny buttons. Dark brown hair, dark eyes, and sleek glasses. She carried a roller pack, the Air Force emblem silk-screened onto it. She tipped the luggage boy with a smile and a gentle 'thank you'. She then bid goodbyes to her companion, pulling her into a hug.

When they parted was when I got to see the other woman. She was dressed in a suit, but instead of dark blue, like her friend, she was enveloped in a layer of dark green. She had no hat, but her hair was done up in a blond ponytail. Thick combat boots thudded on the floor, over to the luggage boy. She spoke a few words and pointed to two large duffel bags on the top shelf of the compartment. He greeted her request with a complacent smile, then went ahead and attempted to pull the bags straight outward.

*CRASH!* the bags toppled on top of the guy, making him collapse as if his legs were paper. He screamed in surprise, struggling to shove the bags off of himself. The woman pulled out her wallet, leafing a good five dollars out. Then, with one hand, she grabbed both of the bags and gave a good jerk. The bags jumped from the luggage boy's chest, settling on the woman's shoulders like great big flour sacks. Once the poor boy caught his breath and recovered from the awful attack, she gave him the five dollars and a pat on the back, smiling brightly. She then turned to us.

My mother shrieked, running towards the woman as fast as her four-inch heels would let her. I could only stand there, staring as my mother hugged and cried into the shoulder of this woman I could barely recognize.

"Don't run like that, Mom. You'll hurt yourself."

My Mom peeked over her shoulder and waved me forward. It took me a few steps before I found myself gaining speed. She was there. She was actually _there. _My sister, whom I haven't seen since Christmas, was here and here to stay.

She wasn't at all like the picture inside my mind. Her skin was clear of any tattoos (at least, any I could see) and the only scars I could see were gracing the collarbone. No large, grotesque wounds or even bigger, grosser scar tissue. The only things she carried were her two duffel bags, and no bulge in her pockets suggested a cigarette pack. She was hugging my mother, smiling like a kid at Christmas on her birthday, and she was crying.

Not at all like what I had imagined her. But it was much better than that.

She noticed me standing there, taking it all in. She let go of Mom and knelt down to my height. Her eyes shimmered with tears, and she was still grinning. "Come on, Raphael. Can't I hug you for real this time?"

I ran at her with all my strength, gripping hard as if she would escape if I didn't. She didn't move, returning the force of the hug. She laughed into my shoulder, her tears already staining my sleeve. But I didn't care. She was real, as real and solid as anything else in the whole world. This wasn't one of those fake hugs we gave each other after the few video chats we had, or the care packages I got once a year. This was her.

"My God," she declared as she released me from the hug, "look how you've grown!"

"Only ten centimeters," I retorted, now smiling just as widely, "you didn't miss much."

She laughed, a hearty good-from-the-soul laugh. It was great to hear.

"It's good to be home, Raph. It's good to be home."


	2. The First Day

**Well, look at that! I'm updating! Seeing as I'm going through school (again) and I don't really have that much time (again), I'll try to keep the quality of the rewritten work while staying updated. Thanks to Steel Autobot, who was the first to review the new story (stay awesome, you). Anyway, ONWARDS! AGAIN!**

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><p>Chapter Two: The First Day<p>

The thin feeble light of dawn crept through the window, trying it's best to give light to the darkness inside the bedroom. Slowly but surely, this little band of light grew, spilling over the windowsill and tumbling onto the floor. It delicately stepped over the stack of textbooks, creating fuzzy shadows from loose pages sticking out. The light also narrowly skimmed the foot of a swivel chair, though the reflection off the smooth aluminum cast tiny starlets about the room. Little by little, it crawled, swelling more and more as it covered the vicinity with its comforting shine. The twin-sized bed, the compact dresser, even the walls opposite to the window began to glow with the new light of morning. For a moment, everything seemed comfortably lighted and fresh. That is, until the light ran into a serious problem.

In the far corner of the room, to the left of the window, there was a spot where the light didn't reach. A fortress of satchels, clothes, and a tent bag created an almost impenetrable barrier against the light, insisting that whatever lay behind it didn't need the vitamin D. The light refused to back down, instead attempting to overpower the shadows through the passage of time. The shadows fought valiantly, but after ten minutes the light was almost over the barrier. Keep pushing, the light commanded as it scaled the rough fabric of the duffel bags, keep pushing and eventually the era of shadow will end for today. The shadows kept retreating to the wrinkles and folds of the battlefield, hiding or weakly rebelling against the invasion. With a final minute, the light successfully scaled over the top of the fortress, the celebrations as bright as the sun that now visibly shone through the window at full strength.

Now, if only they could get under that damn blanket.

Elizabeth, aware of the new warmth lighting upon her covers, peeked outside with one bleary, reddened eye. The sunlight stung her retina, causing her to quickly recline back into her cave of comforting dark. Unfortunately, the dogged sunlight refused to back down and leave her be. We came all this way, the light seemed to say as it laced the edges of her blanket, accept your defeat and come outside. Despite light's eager and promising proposal, Elizabeth groaned and pulled the blanket tighter over her head. She didn't want to see the sunlight. The sunlight hurt.

Raphael, on the other hand, was already up and about. The creaking noises from the bed frame vibrated through the floor as he dropped himself out of the bed. His small footsteps traced through the room, approached Elizabeth, and stood there. From her observations, Raphael was either pulling something out of his closet, or watching the bundled mass that was Elizabeth. The squeak of the door was absent in this case, so she concluded that he was indeed watching her. For the moment.

He **hum**med to himself for a second before turning, walking out the door and quietly shutting it behind him. Elizabeth could hear his tiny footsteps tumble down the stairs, across the living room into the kitchen. Elizabeth smiled to herself as his footsteps faded away into nothing, probably because the bathroom was lined with tile. It couldn't be heard this far away. Elizabeth closed her eyes, breathing long, slow breaths of passive intention. Just doze off. That's all you need to do. It's not hard, you did it on the train and you can do it here.

So why can't I?

Elizabeth groaned again and shifted to her back. Sleep. That was her number one wish she made when she rode into Carson City. She begged for it in the barracks, she nearly killed for it during the midnight patrols, and she silently thanked God for it when she dozed off on the train ride home. So why was it, now that she was in sleep-approved attire, in a sleeping bag, in a _bedroom, _that she couldn't just nod off? She was home, for crying out loud. There was no need for the stiffness in her spine, or the rigidness in her calves. Everything in her body screamed for sleep, but at the same time they demanded alertness. Something is wrong, the voice in her head persisted, so you can't sleep until you find out what it is. She had heeded the voice in her head, but found nothing out of the ordinary and tried to fall asleep again. Once more, the voice prevented her from catching a single minute. Look harder. Something's wrong and you have to find it.

She punched her pillow, rolled herself up in the blanket, changed clothes, punched her pillow a second time, but nothing. Not even a whiff of chamomile could calm her down, the aromatic flowers kept in a satchel and tied to her duffel bag. The flowers were a last resort, usually because when she smelled them she would drop within a minute. But for the first time since receiving the satchel from a kind elderly Iranian lady in the service depot, the flowers failed to send her to sleep. This, topped off with an upset stomach from the rich food the night before, made sleep an almost impossible feat. All night, she tossed and turned, thoroughly tired but unable to fall asleep. Utter hell.

Elizabeth halted her murderous thoughts as she heard a creaking noise from downstairs. Despite five years of absence from the household, her ears immediately recognized the sound. The old rocking chair, with her mother sitting and probably watching the news in it. The creak echoed across the hall, wormed through the walls, and found it's way into Raphael's room. The noise ground into Elizabeth's head, reminding her of how it would keep her up at night and edge her to (respectfully) demand that her mother move to the couch and quit that horrid noise.

This horrid noise that, unknowingly to Elizabeth, was pulling her into the clutches of sleep.

She felt it gently at first, in her eyes. The lids became heavy on their own, no longer wishing to stay open in paranoia. The entirety of her face relaxed then, her teeth unclenching from her jaw. With each rhythmic creak, Elizabeth felt herself being nudged closer to dozing off. Her hands unhanded the blanket, drawing back into the covers and curling at her chest level. Her knees unconsciously drew upwards, completing the process of the fetal position. Elizabeth felt the sway of the noise, the soothing racket weighing her eyes down more. And more. And more.

At first, she saw nothing. Light sleep provided no visions, unlike the much deeper slumbers Elizabeth was used to. As the minutes ticked by, she slowly sunk into the floor and into her consciousness. This is heaven, her subconscious thought as she drifted in the dark, it has to be. Here, nothing hurt or meant to hurt. Here, her body could rest up as much as it wanted without the anxiety of being on your toes every damn second. She loved it.

Until she woke up again.

At this point the sun was tired of watching the mass of blankets go about its business, and desired to provoke some movement. Stronger and stronger the light had become, all the while growing warmer. The blanket was thick and woolen, easily blocking any light from coming in unless Elizabeth desired to. This didn't stop the light, though. Little by little, it fed it's heat-enriched light into the covers for the approximate ten minutes that Elizabeth was sleeping. Just enough to wake her up again and note, with major discomfort, that her previously comfy cocoon had now become a foil packet in a five hundred degree oven.

Plus, the chair had stopped creaking.

The house, just like the entire night before, was deathly silent. Raphael was probably at school now, and the mother had left just then for work. Elizabeth was all alone, with no one but the noises of the house for comfort. Grumbling, Elizabeth finally threw the covers off of her and sat up on the floor. A stabbing pain in her head revealed itself, and after a few seconds of digging around in the tangled blond mass Elizabeth came upon two horribly bent hairpins. Ouch. She tossed these aside before standing up and stretching, her back cracking effectively four different times.

Good morning, Jasper.

The stairs felt small and tightly spaced as she walked down them, taking care to miss the fourth one from the bottom. That one creaked like a dying cat. Just as Elizabeth had suspected, there was no one around. The TV was off, the lights were off, and the blinds were open to allow the wretched sun to filter in and light up the place. The glare from the polished floors stung Elizabeth's eyes again as she made her way into the kitchen.

Despite the cleanliness in the rest of the house, the kitchen was a complete disaster. Dishes overflowed the sink, the remnants of chicken and potatoes lining the edges of the sink and solidifying on the counters. Cabinets were left open, displaying the abundance of food that, unfortunately, Elizabeth was too nauseous to eat. Stains on the floor, stains on the counter, even a gross-looking brown blotch on the ceiling above the stove.

A few words about Elizabeth. She liked rules and regulations, especially if they benefitted everyone as a whole. In the barracks, there were few times where she wasn't told how to do this-and-that, and because so-and-so. Not only was she trained to follow them, but she also learned to do the duties before the order was given. An hour before the morning march, she would tidy her little cot and organize her belongings. Don't fold the uniform, only the socks. Shine the shoes. Keep the buckle from scratching. Straighten the hat. Stand straight, with arms to the sides and chin fist's length from your chest. Never talk back, never forget to wash your hands, and never under any circumstances forget to address your superiors properly.

She, being one of the only women in service, often was given little tasks here and there to do. Occasionally, she would be called in to help either serve or clean up after the lunch rush. Washing dishes, cleaning counters, scrubbing floors; it was woman's work, but in the end it helped everyone out a bit more.

For someone as nitpicked as Elizabeth, still fifteen hours fresh from the train and with no sleep, to see such a ghastly-looking kitchen in her own home was, to put it into perspective, slightly physically painful. Seriously. The amount of ground-in training and harsh words ate at her with every second she took gazing at the filthy mess. Something had to be done, she finalized as she fished a banana peel out from between the counter and the oven, and it had to be done before she tore her eyes out.

She remembered where her mother kept the cleaning supplies, and in no time armed herself with a couple rags, a mop and some diluted bleach. She started on the floor, light on the Clorox, as she didn't want to burn through the laminate. Quickly, the acid ate away the scum and disinfected the floor, leaving it nice and shiny. Elizabeth took her time, taking to the entire floor into account and even reaching under the oven and fridge. She didn't even want to know what that great big furball was that she pulled out from under the oven. Ech.

She began cleaning the cupboards when she felt her stomach grumble, the mild tremor reminding her to check the time. The oven clock stated that it was eleven-thirty, much to late for a breakfast of any kind, yet too early for lunch. Elizabeth's eyes glanced to and fro, until they settled upon a wire basket filled with fruit. A snack, her stomach insisted as Elizabeth lifted herself up from her knees, would be sufficient. The fruit inside the basket was inviting, two apples and an orange, the colors shining in the sunlight from the kitchen window.

Elizabeth hadn't had a proper bit of citrus since she left for the war. Food that could keep was essential, and fresh fruit was sadly not included on that menu. The government had provided the troops with neat MREs, lovely freeze-dried packets of high nutrition something-or-others that, after a good two minutes in hot water, became edible high nutrition something-or-others. Boot camp had a cook, but the menu was also trimmed; designed to add muscle and energy. Oranges did neither. Elizabeth was never one to complain, but she would often stare at her hot cereal and water bottle at breakfast time and wistfully wonder how much trouble it would be to import eggs or orange juice to the base. Now that she was home, with free reign over what she ingested, the urge for the sweet-sour fruit won her over in a heartbeat. Eagerly, Elizabeth plucked the orange from the basket and gave it a mild squeeze.

Squelch.

The orange popped, a dirty brown liquid bursting from the backside. Moments later, fermented brownish-green pulp dripped down her hand and arm.

"Augh!" Elizabeth cried, letting the orange drop to the floor. Another *squish* sound was heard as the fruit plopped onto the previously spotless tile. The orange didn't bounce or roll, instead showing it's tasteful green and white moldy skin mottled with the rotting pulp. The juice was already pooling onto the laminate, and before Elizabeth could grab another roll of paper towels an absolutely horrid stench unleashed itself upon the kitchen.

Oh, come on.

Elizabeth turned on the sink with her elbow, careful not to spread the contagious liquid any further than it should go. How long had that fruit been sitting there? She confirmed her suspicions as she lifted the basket containing the two apples. On the top, the fruit appeared an appetizing red and yellow, but on the bottom a mess of furry green and white mold had invaded the dark, favoring the shade and eating through the fruit hungrily. With a sigh, she dumped the remaining fruit into the trash and set the bowl into the sink. What a start.

She eyed the orange on the floor with great distaste, the juice spreading its influence to the outer reaches of the laminate slab it squished upon. Cleaning it up would have been a cinch if it weren't for the stomach-churning smell. She was already nauseous from the rich feast before, and despite regretting the amount she ate Elizabeth didn't exactly feel like parting with it at the moment. On the other hand, she couldn't leave it there. Ants or other insects might smell it too. Plus, Elizabeth noted, she had to finish cleaning the kitchen before the family came home. What to do, what to do.

Well, no time like the present. Elizabeth took a towel, wrapping it around her nose and mouth like gas rag, and plunged right in.

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><p>"You're kidding!"<p>

A man stood at the butcher counter, his face getting redder by the minute. "Four dollars a pound for bacon?! Preposterous!"

The butcher behind the counter (the only thing blocking the customer from dealing his opinion physically) didn't react. "Sir, the price is wholesale. Meat's hard to get for a decent price as it is. What you see is what you get, take it or leave it."

The customer was almost frothing at the mouth now, "Take it or leave it? Why, I ought 'ta-"

The man began to rant, threats and incredibly raunchy insults thrown left and right at the butcher behind the counter. Strangely enough, the other customers simply ignored the exchange and continued shopping.

Everyone who shopped at the Sweet Savings Grocer knew the angry customer: Thomas O'Riley, one of the major drunkards in town. Hardly anyone who shopped in there didn't hear him or hear of him. Many had requested that Thomas be banned from the store, due to his habit of complaining about non-sale items, the staff, and even other customers. The manager politely refused these pleads, noting that despite his horrible behavior and even worse drinking habits, the amount of alcohol the man bought was enough to keep the store running. Yes, he bought that much.

A woman standing behind Thomas decided that this would take too long, and stepped out of line. Two pounds of chicken thighs and a half-pound of tenderloin could wait until O'Riley was done with his whiskey-induced tantrum. She had time, thankfully, so she skipped the spot on the shopping list and moseyed over to the produce section.

The woman didn't stand out much from the crowd. She wore casual clothing, a simple tee with a cardigan and jeans accompanied by off-white sneakers. Her black hair was in a low bun, out of sight and out of mind. The cart she pushed was half full with dry goods and a case of water, the baby seat holding her purse.

Picking out a few apples, she tested them for ripeness before placing them in a thin plastic bag. Her son would like these, she knew, as he ate pretty much anything in front of him. As his mother, it was her responsibility to know that what he ate had at least some nutritional content.

A yell caught her attention, snapping her head up from the display of apples. O'Riley stood hunched, something dripping in his hand, facing a woman blocking her face with her arms. She was also drenched in some kind of liquid, and only when the smell reached the produce section did the dark-haired woman know. Whiskey.

O'Riley dropped the broken neck of the bottle in disbelief, stuttering as he attempted to apologize to the woman. A few staff held him back, rapidly cleaning up the mess of alcohol seeping to the other aisles. The butcher was wide-eyed, his mouth open slightly as the woman examined her arms. She attempted to wipe them on herself, streaks of blood leaving racing stripes on her white shirt.

The shopper rushed over there in an instant. She approached the stunned butcher, who just then emerged from behind the safety of the display case. "What happened?"

"O'Riley nearly tried to come behind the counter, when some lady pulled him back. He lashed out at her and hit her with the bottle. What a mess…"

The woman rolled her eyes inwardly. Of course it's a mess, you idiot. She shifted her attention to the woman, grasping her bleeding arm. Shards of bloodied glass lay on the floor, at least half an inch thick. Whiskey bottles were usually that heavy, to prevent the alcohol from heating up too fast. Either O'Riley had hit her really hard, or the woman had carbon-fiber forearms. Either way, she didn't seem to be crying. She gently picked out the shards still in her arm, wincing as one of them tore the cut wider.

"Honey, don't do that, the cut might get worse."

The woman looked up, and a shock ran through the dark-haired woman's spine. Large brown eyes, blond hair, and an expression between interest and indifference. Who was she? It was clear that no one in the store had seen this woman, or knew her. A stranger, picking shards of jagged glass out of her bleeding forearm like picking berries from a particularly thorny bush. The woman cleared her throat, "I've been through worse. You a medic?"

Medic. She was quick to react, "Yes, in a sense. Come with me, I'll take you to my house. I have supplies to get the rest of the glass out." She surveyed the damage, "You'll need stitches, definitely. I hope you aren't afraid of needles?"

"Hardly" The woman smiled weakly, clearly pointing to the small puddle of blood she was standing in. "Should I wait outside?"

"Definitely."

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><p>"Hold still."<p>

The dark-haired woman gently inserted the syringe into Elizabeth's forearm, the action smooth and experienced. She withdrew the needle and set it in a metal bin, "There. Local anesthetic. I can't say you won't feel a thing, but it will be much more pleasant than nothing at all."

"No problem, you're doing the best you can." Elizabeth replied, watching the nurse intently as tweezers were pulled out. "I'm grateful, actually. I never knew O'Riley was still alive, at this rate. He still drinks?"

"Like a madman. I remember his doctor nearly quit, she was so fed up with his drinking. He's already had a few accidents, but somehow his body still functions on nothing but whiskey and TV dinners." She looked up from her work at Elizabeth's face. "How do you know him? I've never seen you before."

The woman, sitting on the coffee table and holding up her arm to the nurse, was easily in her mid-twenties, though her features made her look quite older. Worry lines and bags under her eyes weighed down her face, and her blond hair had a thick undercoat of brown. The nurse noticed numerous scars on her arms, small and large, in shapes almost unimaginable. An especially thick scar lay on her shoulder, an impression of a blunt rectangular object.

"Machine gun."

"I'm sorry?"

"A machine gun. The scar on my shoulder. We were training and I didn't brace myself. Those models don't have a lot of cushioning. Or smooth edges."

"Are you a soldier?" the nurse prodded, carefully extracting a difficult shard of glass. The woman didn't flinch.

"Used to be. I went to support the family. Now they're good and settled."

"I see."

Silence ensued. The ticking from the hall clock invaded the space, hollow and mindless. The woman grunted slightly as the other dug deeper into another cut, finding another shard.

"You have a son?" The woman suddenly asked.

A fond smile reached the nurse, "Yes, one. Quite the handful, always out with his friends and coming home late. Why?"

"I have a younger brother. Just thought they might know each other."

"What's his name?"

"Raphael? Raphael Esquivel?"

The nurse suddenly froze, the tweezers clutching a thin fragment of glass. "Raphael?"

"Yes. Or Raph for short."

An expression of shock passed, though only for a second, before she flashed a brilliant smile, "Why, I know him! He's a friend of my son's! You're his older sister, then? I couldn't tell!" The amount of sun and sugar in her voice was close to overwhelming.

Elizabeth smiled meekly, "Yeah, the similarities kind of stop with our last names. He's more of my mother, definitely. I share everything my father had, and a bit more." She stopped, a crease forming on her head, "Wait, you said your son was a teenager. Raphael's only twelve. How do they know each other, exactly?"

"Science fiction club." the nurse stated shortly. "My son loves that kind of stuff. I can't keep up with it, to be honest. You might want to clench your teeth, dear, this one's not coming out easy."

"Science fi-_yyyeeeoww_!" Elizabeth yelled, only afterwards snapping her jaw shut in pained force. The nurse swiftly extracted the shard, noting a small bit of muscle clinging to it. Nothing a couple weeks's worth of painkillers won't fix. She dropped the little devil in the tin, and set down the tweezers to feel Elizabeth's forearm. "Do you feel any more stabbing or rough edges?"

A few seconds passed as the blonde concentrated, the obvious pain of her cut muscle put aside as the other massaged her arm. She shook her head, "You got them all. Goodness, that hurt worse than being sand-belted."

"Sand-belted?"

The woman continued as slightly more anesthetic was applied to the cuts, "Sometimes we would pile people onto a jeep, more than the vehicle could hold. The poor guys who got the back of the jeep usually got barraged with sand kicked up from the tires. Hurts quite a bit, and when they came down the looked like someone took a sander to the face." She chuckled softly, until she saw the nurse's face. "Sorry, I guess that was a bit graphic."

"I'm a doctor, hon. Graphic has a lot of meanings. Which reminds me, how old were you when you enlisted?"

"Eighteen, ma'am."

"Eighteen? _Only _eighteen? You were just a young woman!"

Elizabeth shrugged, "My family needed the support. I could have gone to college, but it cost too much, and they needed the money far more than I did."

"What about scholarships?"

"I applied. I gained around twenty thousand before the old man kicked the bucket. The funeral processions, the debt, all the expenses rounded up and sucked the money dry."

"I-I see. I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be. He was a heavy drinker, like O'Riley. He had it coming, plus he never really found his niche in life. Not to be mean, but when he left us, it wasn't exactly a tearfest."

"Ah." The last stitch finished, the nurse turned momentarily and began cutting pieces of gauze. "When this heals, go to the hospital and have them removed. It's a decent job, so give it around three weeks to heal or so. If it gets infected or anything, call me." She took a sticky note and jotted down her number, before reaching for bandages. "I'll give you a ride home as well, since you probably don't remember Jasper as well as you used to. What's your name, by the way? You never mentioned."

"Elizabeth. And you're…"

"Please," the doctor said as she finished up her work, "call me June."

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><p><strong>Huddah, late chapter is late. I can totally blame my addiction to TF2, right? Riiight. Anyway, I'm sorry this took so long, but if it makes you feel any better I actually enjoyed writing this one. Freaking O'Riley and his freaking whiskey. And holy sweet baby Primus, this is a loooong one. Although close to nothing happened. Pacing? What's that?<strong>

**Oh my Primus, it's been so long. Okay….ready….**

**OVER AND OUT!**


	3. The Incident

All right then, let's get started.

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><p>Chapter 3: The Incident<p>

The late afternoon sun bloomed gloriously over the Nevadan sandstone, casting streaks of orange and yellow light about. Shadows contributed a lovely purple streak, much like a pattern of a watercolor painter. Faint, bold; sharp, mulled. It all blended perfectly with the earth-colored rocks and dirt clods.

Not much can escape the light, and when it does it is always temporary. Much like a storm, which after casting it's rains and winds upon the Earth must take its leave to fight another day. They come and go, like life and it's common mishaps.

Very much like today's mishap.

Elizabeth collapsed on the bed, sighing deeply as she felt her arms throbbing from strain. The mattress was slightly stale, but Elizabeth hardly noticed; not every bunkmate was as clean as you were, and there were times she found questionable…_somethings _hidden under her bunk. At this point, Elizabeth was just about ready to throw her responsibilities out the window, curl up into a ball, and sleep unto the edge of tomorrow.

Two hours. It had taken two grueling, dangerous, outright difficult hours to bully the bed upstairs. Her mother had found it in the basement, and suggested very amiably that she have it. Now, this wouldn't have been so bad if the frame wasn't wrought iron and solid oak board body. Every step up almost killed her back, it was so heavy. In the end, she had done everything in her power to ensure its place in her room, heaving until the final position suited her just fine. Which wasn't long, considering that after the whole affair was over all she could think about was what excuse she could have used to keep sleeping on the floor to save her poor muscles.

She flexed her hand, etched with calluses from the bed frame. Physical labor wasn't a foreign concept to Elizabeth, especially in the days of the war. Sunrise to sundown, most of the hard work was done by human hand; machines cut into the budget a bit too much, and they were harder to replace. Ammunition crates, catalogued weaponry, and sandbags, all hauled on the shoulder or tied to the back like a rucksack. The tougher, stronger men hauled the big stuff, like big metal boxes of ammunition or distributed arms. Men like that could pry the top of the box off with their teeth (or at least they tried) and smash the flimsy latches in their hands. Elizabeth was no macho builder, but being a part of the unit called for participation, and she had to do something if she couldn't haul a crate of rifles to the nearest service depot. Her mates were smart, though, and soon gave her a job she loved and hated at the same time.

Mail.

You would not _believe _how much mail came in every week. Letters, packages, even crates a few times loaded the tiny post office. Elizabeth would sign into the pickup crew, be handed a sack big enough to fully encapsulate two full-grown men, and sent off with a list of names regarding who got mail. Elizabeth personally hated the list method, which forced her to actually search for whatever the recipient got. Instead, she found a much more reliable tactic: she dug around in the big sack, pulled out a letter at random, and sped off to find the name.

Elizabeth was proud to say that she was the best mail carrier her unit ever had. Two weeks into the new practice, she knew everyone's name, nickname, and usual sender. It took her less time to track down the men and briefly summarize the contents. "A parcel for you," she would quip as she caught Henry Barlowe outside the practice range. "Letter from your girl," Elizabeth declared to the half-naked Jim Sterling, fresh out of the shower.

Did she mind the job? Despite the task being an apparent good fit for her, especially when no one else could keep up with the demand, there was always the stab of disappointment that Elizabeth got whenever she went through a sack and turned up empty-handed. Raphael always promised to write as soon as he could, but school, clubs and the fact that Jasper Post Office is a good ten blocks away was enough incentive to wait. For weeks on end, Elizabeth would burn through entire crates of mail, packages, and manila envelopes, always hoping to find the burnt sienna envelope with scratchy handwriting. Raph loved to write his letters to her by hand, and despite the slightly under par legibility of the letter itself, the very paper and script was enough to tide Elizabeth over for another few weeks. Elizabeth would always reply quickly too, often sneaking a few words after lights out and sealing the envelope at five-thirty in the morning. This habit led to her dependence on bifocals, quickly prescribed after Elizabeth was found attempting to eat her morning oatmeal with a knife. She blamed the silverware manufacturer.

She pulled herself out of memory lane and took the exit when she heard a knock at her door. Low to the ground, right in the center. Raph. "Come in," she said, "I'm in here."

Raphael peeked into the room, his large glasses propping the door open. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"Nah," Elizabeth dismissed, punching the mattress hard, "I just finished getting this guy out of the basement. No amount of pull-ups or crunches could ever prepare me for wrought-iron bed frames. All those hours in the gym, wasted." She entered the last part jokingly, knowing full well how much she could actually lift. Truly, hours of exercise did her good, if not provided extra muscle. Still, an entire bed frame by herself proved a challenge; the aches and pains in her said so.

"Oh okay. Can I ask you something?"

Elizabeth propped her head on another pillow, the creaks of the springs making her wince. "Sure, what'cha need?"

Raph twiddled his thumbs, looking down at his shoes. "Could you possibly… drive me to school tomorrow?"

She blinked. School? Didn't Mom usually take him on her way to work? They both woke up at similar times, plus there were no signs of a considerable length of time between departures. Did Raph take the bus? No, why should he? The closest bus stop was five blocks away, and there was nowhere near enough time for him to make it to the bus and get to school without being late. "Who usually gets you there?"

"A friend, but he's… sick."

That hesitancy. That half a second of decisive silence. Elizabeth hadn't been around much for the past five years, but she knew a liar when she heard one. What was so unsettling was that these words were coming from Raphael, someone she never thought to be a liar. He always did what he was told, was truthful with his grades, and was incredibly honest to his family.

According to Elizabeth.

"Yeah, sure," Elizabeth said, shifting in her bed, "Which car?"

"I'll ask Mom. She usually takes the sedan for work, so you'll probably need to use the van."

A few seconds of silence. Elizabeth was thinking it over, asking questions. Does the van have gas? How long has it been since it's been serviced? Are the tires pressurized? These questions nipped at her, allowing deeper, much more darker questions to invade her mind. Does Mom really take the sedan? Is Raphael lying to me? Is he trying to avoid someone? Somebody? She turned and eyed Raphael over her shoulder, his small figure slightly shrinking in her stare. A test of truths, that's all it was. Raphael just so happened to be unlucky; it was one of those tests where one needed much more than intelligence to pass. Raphael was clear, but caught in the stare of his older sibling made his possibilities freeze mid-thought.

"What car does your friend drive?" she finally asked. Her gaze refused to relent, basking Raph in a spotlight of unwanted attention.

"An Urbana. Yellow with black stripes. You know," he cleared his throat, "a muscle car."

She did know. In fact, she knew more than Raphael cared to know. Judging by the model and design, Elizabeth immediately thought of a speedster, something with good acceleration and maneuverability. The flashy paint job probably was factory-issued, so at least she wasn't dealing with a rebellious punk or someone like that. Finally, the name. An Urbana was a street name in Jasper. Whoever owned one either had rich parents or gas to burn. Many teenagers, especially some who went to Jasper High, had neither. That either meant a teacher or someone the family knew. Elizabeth drew in a long breath, the obvious choice presenting itself.

Ah well.

"Alright Raph, I'll drive you tomorrow."

Raph grinned hopefully, "Cool! Thank you-"

"How_ever_. Let me make something clear."

Raph shut his mouth faster than he opened it. He cautiously watched his sibling turn until she was facing him, a pillow under her chest with her arms wrapped around it. She began staring at him again, but this was a different stare. It didn't search. It promised.

"I know I might sound like Mom when I say this, but you have to understand. I don't know this guy who drives you to school, and chances are I won't know him for a long time. Urbanas are racers, Raph. I won't judge the guy; he's probably a nice man. But if I ever-"

"Eliza-"

"_Let me finish_. If I_ ever_ see you in one of those, topping eighty-five with no chance of braking…"

She didn't need to finish that sentence. Raphael already could imagine what Eliza could do. Attack the driver, ridicule him for putting her brother in such danger, possibly attempting to call the police. The third option shot a shiver down Raph's spine. No, thank you. A verbal threat would be enough.

"You got it. No street racing. Promise."

Elizabeth exhaled, rubbing her forearm across her face. "Alright. It's a promise." She smiled warmly, "Now go and see if Mom needs help with dinner. I think she said something about hamburgers. I'll be down in a minute."

Raphael grinned back, stepping forward to hug Elizabeth briefly. She reached out with one arm, pulling him into an affectionate squeeze. He left just as briefly, his small footsteps pounding down the stairs to the kitchen. Once the voices were no longer heard, Elizabeth stretched out on the bed and glanced at the window outside. The sky was a brilliant orange, as if the house was the wick burning inside a lit candle. The horizon was just laced with scarlet, and the middle of the sky still held a dreamy, soft bluish-violet. It was a beautiful sky, no doubt about it. No amount of pictures or postcards could ever replace that. As Elizabeth nodded off to the contented warmth of the late afternoon sun, all the doubt, worry and tension was skimmed from her mind and body. It was lovely.

Until she woke up.

She snapped her eyes open with a start, the violent awakening kicking her heart into panic. She shot upright, frantically searching the darkness with bleary eyes. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up on end, along with every nerve in her. It took a minute to calm her breathing, vainly running her hands through her hair and rubbing her face. Once Elizabeth had collected herself, she suddenly smelled something savory. On her trunk was a plate of food, a hamburger and some tater tots. She sighed as she hopped up from the bed and approached the food. Stone cold, and the tater tots were a little crunchy. Elizabeth took a tot and nibbled it, the starch enticing her senses to eat more. Dinner must have been great, Elizabeth thought as she picked up the burger, when it was warm and fresh.

She checked the clock in her room. Eleven-thirty. A compensation for the last week of lost sleep. Then again, despite the record five and a half hours of sleep, the waking up part still needed work. Elizabeth sat at the foot of her bed and munched, cleaning her plate after twenty minutes. She didn't want to rush herself; her stomach was sensitive to binges. And since she hadn't had a decent burger since her high school years, it was technically a binge. She gently picked up her plate and opened her door, peeking out into the hallway. No one was awake, thank goodness; she didn't want to find Mom passed out on the couch with a half-empty cap. And yet, as she descended the stairs, her thoughts came true. Though Mom had the decency to carry herself to bed, she had left a good mess in the kitchen. Less dishes, but the vodka bottle and soda was left out and opened. Taking the small flimsy cap, she swiftly did the vodka justice and replaced it in the refrigerator. She picked up the club soda bottle, sniffing it before taking a tentative swig. She smacked her lips a few times. Flat. She would have to get more tomorrow if Mom was going to calm down after work.

As she dumped the flat soda down the sink, she heard a slight rumble. It wasn't loud, but it was harsh and…big, in a sense. Elizabeth discarded the empty bottle, approaching the front window. The rumbling grew louder and more distinct, the vibration of the source felt once she peeked through the blinds.

An SUV. Parked outside the house.

At first, she thought it had stopped to answer a phone call. It was difficult to tell, the tinted windows and lack of light not helping her at all. She could just barely make out the paint, dark blue with matte steel and orange hints. Definitely not a factory model.

Elizabeth waited five minutes, contemplating whether she should wait it out or go investigate. The car did seem a bit suspicious, and the tinted windows (which, despite the grant of heat and glare protection, weren't allowed on some vehicles) and thick armored appearance of the frame made the SUV appear… sinister. All Elizabeth knew was that she didn't like it. Not one bit.

She went back upstairs and opened her trunk. Inside it was clothing, bags, paperwork; all sorts of military essentials. She reached into the very bottom of the case, feeling for five seconds until her hands lapsed around a blunt object wrapped in packaging. Pulling it out of the heap, she peeled the bubble wrap off to reveal a pistol. No actual sentimental value was associated with the weapon, but a good friend of hers had been nice enough to get it by security on her way home. In the early days she would have cringed at the sight of a gun; now she didn't feel safe unless one was at least nearby. She descended the stairs, the rumbling still there and constant. A good fifteen minutes had gone by, and the car wasn't moving? She took the safety off, making sure to keep her finger off the trigger and on the handle. There was no way she was going to blow a hole in the laminate, fresh out of service or not.

She opened the front door slightly, the cool night air seeping in. Keeping her weapon low and concealed, she edged herself out into the open. The night air was still, but she could feel tiny drafts playing with the edges of her shirt. The car (or the driver, anyway) remained still, apparently not noticing the slowly sneaking woman coming. Step by step, she got closer to the running vehicle. She was two feet away now, just able to touch the car door. Hesitantly, she stepped forward about six more inches and reached out.

Knock knock.

Out of nowhere, the vehicle jumped into action, horn blaring and headlights flashing. Elizabeth shot back, tripping over the edge of the sidewalk. The horn continued to blare, rendering Elizabeth screaming in agony as she clamped her hands over her ears. As she attempted to buffer the sound, her finger accidentally clicked the trigger on the gun, causing the weapon to jerk in her hand and further deafen her. The shot echoed in the night air, screeching straight into the sky. The vehicle peeled away, the tires screaming against the asphalt and the horn continuously blaring. Elizabeth crumpled on the sidewalk, clenching her teeth so hard she felt one grind. A few house lights came on, and within a minute people were outside and sleepily demanding the noise to stop. Elizabeth couldn't get up, any noise now sheer pain in her head. The gun lay a foot from her.

My God, what just happened? The car had… it was… why…

Her mind was having difficulties finishing thoughts, probably from the huge red bump forming on her right temple. She was reduced to curling up into a ball, all her energy put into clutching her head. The splitting pain. The throbbing. Make it stop. Please, for the love of god, make it _stop_.

She heard the front door of the house slam open, footsteps sprinting towards her. Mom grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her violently and screaming in her face. All Elizabeth could do was grimace and shockingly stare at her mother's contorted expressions. Raphael was standing in the doorway, but from where she and her mother were sitting, she couldn't make out what Raphael's face looked like.

Eventually, Elizabeth was brought inside, forced to call the hospital, and spent the night at the Urgent Care center. Her mother, who was extremely distressed, was babbling to the police officers about what she knew (which was extremely little; she had a good few vodka sodas before she had called it a night, and the only thing that had woken her up was the gunshot) though tears and hiccups. In the corner of the room, clutching is glasses, was Raphael. No one stopped to ask him anything, and the nurses had given him a sweet. Despite his sleepy and calm demeanor at the moment, there was no hiding the nervousness as he ran his thumb over the large lenses. He was allowed to see her before she swallowed the sleeping pills, but they hardly said anything. Sound was still extremely painful to her at the moment. As she was wheeled away to a room, the IV being inserted into her right as she turned the corner, she had caught Raphael's eye in the last second. And though she wouldn't see him until the next day, Raphael still felt that look even in the car ride home. As he climbed up the stairs, murmuring goodnight to his still disheveled mother, he couldn't help but glance at the pistol his mother had slammed on the dining room table.

_Not her too_.

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><p>Another chapter! Grant it, with the amount going on in my life, I could have easily taken this and stretched it out a bit more. BUT (big but there) I wanted this to be the first approach scene, and it just so happens to be Breakdown. Why was he sitting out there in the godforsaken hours of the night? FIND OUT NEXT TIME! If you find anything I messed up on, do send me a message; I've been out of it for a while, so any critique is appreciated! Do review if you like, too!<p>

Over and Out!


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